


The Slasher

by W4nderingStar



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Halloween Universe, Headless Horseman Reaper, M/M, Pumpkin Reaper, Slasher:76 - Freeform, Supernatural Husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:54:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27318070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/W4nderingStar/pseuds/W4nderingStar
Summary: The Slasher learns a little about himself and his new master....
Relationships: Reaper | Gabriel Reyes/Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison
Comments: 30
Kudos: 117





	The Slasher

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween All!! 
> 
> As voted by you lovely fans, here is the TURE halloween fic for this year. A little more Hollow Highwayman and The Slasher!!
> 
> Forever shout out to @gemsheldrake for her amazing art that forever inspires my writing for the spooky dads!!

**The Slasher**

His neck hurt. A lot. His head was cloaked in a fog, but that wasn’t new. Memories got lost in that fog all the time. He flexed his arms, but something bound his wrists and elbows together. 

He grunted. 

His legs were bound under him and numb. Well, this was new. Or was it? That memory could have been lost to the fog in his head. 

“Oh good. You’re awake,” came a soft, almost incorporeal voice behind him. 

Something grabbed him by the hair and pulled his head back. His neck muscles screamed as a vertebrate slid back into place. He opened his eyes. The orange and white world came back into view. There was a rock ceiling several feet above him. A few stalactites were visible, poised like fangs in a cavernous mouth. 

The hand let him go. He let his head fall forward, neck muscles spasming as something else broken inside of him slotted back into place. A dark shadow swept by, leather creaking, material flapping, boots thudding. 

A memory drifted out of the fog. 

Burning pain. Hard asphalt. Ominous, thudding bootfalls that rang in his chest cavity. 

He blinked the memory from his eyes and took stock. He was kneeling before a huge stone slab. It was at least four feet tall, with rough-hewn steps carved into the base that lead up to a smooth, seven foot long top. The entire thing was surrounded by at least a hundred lit candles, melted wax dripping from one step to the next in a black river. Half a dozen Jack-o-Lanterns littered the ground, their smiling faces slashed by claws, candle flames glutterig weekly. 

Where was he? He grunted and tested his bonds. They didn’t budge. A shadow swept by him, blotting out the candles. The figure turned, shadows and light playing off the form. 

It was a man. Or what was left of one. He was huge, all legs and board shoulders. Massive iron boots and gauntlets protected his limbs. A skull and crossbones belt buckle pulled together black leather pants. The hem of a ragged, ripped coat swayed around the back of his ankles, blending in and out of the darkness. 

It had no head, only the high collar of the coat, and a stump of a neck that glowed a moten yellow. 

Memories came back. Yes. He’d fought this creature that had appeared out of nowhere and interrupted his hunt. But there had been a jack-o-lanturn. Ah, wait, he’d lopped it off. Maybe it was one of the ones on the floor here. 

“Who sent you?” the headless wraith demanded. “Was it Cold Heart?”

He cocked his head to one side. Cold Heart?

The wraith crossed his arms over his chest. It should have been unnerving spoken to by a thing without a head, shouldn’t it?

“The Pharaoh then. She's always sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong.” 

He shook his head, but no memories came out of the fog, not even the ghost of one. If he had known those names, they were gone now. He grunted, the fog-like vapor spilling past his caved lips. 

“Think carefully about your answer,” the wraith said, pulling a hatchet from the shadows. “Or lose your head.” 

The curve of the blade, the scars in the handle. With a snarl, he surged forward, throwing himself against the restraints. “That’s  _ mine _ !” he snarled. 

The wraith smacked the back of the axe head into his palm, holding the hatchet like he was contemplating snapping it in two. 

“Who sent you into my domain, Slasher? Tell me, and I might consider not holding this trespass against a lowly pawn.”

Slasher? Was that… him? “My name.”

“Excuse me?” The wraith’s voice hissed. 

He licked his lips. “Is that... my name. Slasher?” 

The headless man paused for a moment. Slowly, he reached out, pressing the point of the hatchet under Slasher’s chin. 

“How old are you, creature?” 

He knew what age was, years and days and time, but not how it pertained to him. “Don’t know.” 

The sharp point forced his face up, making him look at the vacant space above the neck stump. The headless man rolled the hatchet handle in his hand, the blade breaking Slasher’s skin, but no blood came. 

“What is your first memory?” 

“Does it matter?” 

“It may.” The blade dug in deeper. “Now speak it.” 

Slasher closed his eyes, trying to part the fog in his head. What was his first memory? Did he have one? He remembered the wreck of cars, several different cars on several different roads. Trees. Forest. A sky filled with stars. A deer. But what was the first?

“Fog,” he said. 

The blade stopped biting into his skin, but did not move. 

“Think harder. Where does the fog start?” 

“It’s always been there.”

“What started it.” 

He didn't know. What had it started? It had always been. The hatchet bit into him again. 

“ _ Think _ .”

He did, he tried. More memories appeared. Faces, running through the trees. Blood. The  _ Thrill _ . He breathed harder. The Rage those faces brought him. The Thrill. Fuck, the  _ Thrill _ of the chase corsing though him making him feel alive. Feel at all. 

“Rage. Thrill. Kill,” he grunted. 

“The very first memory,” the incorporeal voice said, right in his ear. “Your core.” 

Slasher’s eyes opened. The Core.  _ His _ Core. In a burst of orange smoke, his rifle appeared. It clattered to the stone floor, glowing faintly. 

The first memory was his rifle. It held in his hands, burning without burning him. Hungry. Feeding off his rage. 

The hatchet vanished as the headless man walked over to the rifle. 

“Thats.  _ Mine _ ,” Slasher growled, orange fog spilling out of his mouth to splash against the floor. “Do not touch it.” 

The headless man picked up the rifle in both hands. Rage spiked hard and hot in Slasher’s gut. He would cut off more than a pumpkin. The headless man drifted back over to him. The rifle glowed, turning the iron claws white hot. It didn't seem to bother the headless one. 

“Do you know what a rare creature you are, Slasher?” 

He peeled his lips back and snarled. 

“One like you only comes along every few centuries.” The headless one knelt, placing the rifle on the ground. “You’re not one of the Witch’s imitations.” 

He didn't know what he was, or who the Witch was, nor did he care. 

“You’re lucky she didn't find you first.” 

He grunted, eyeing his rifle, hands itching to have it back in their grasp. The gloved hand slid up his neck and squeezed. 

“No pulse. I bet if I opened you up, you wouldn't have a heart.”

“And you don't have a head.” 

The clawed hand squeezed a little tighter before letting him go. “We’re all missing a piece. Doomed to search for it.” 

“Maybe you.” He had no such compulsion. 

“Give it time. The thrill of youth will wear off.” 

“Untie me and see how young I am.” 

The faceless voice chuckled. “In time, Slasher. For now, I rather like you like this.”

He growled, straining against his bindings. 

“Yes. Just like that.” 

“Why did you bring me here?”

The headless one was quiet. He stood, looking down despite not having anything to look down with. 

“Because I wanted to,” he said after a long pause. “You’ll be useful.” 

Slasher snorted. “At beating you and taking your head.” 

“You got lucky.” The headless one waved a hand dismissively. “That’s the only reason I’m not wearing your head right now. You proved yourself.” 

“Don’t care.” 

“I’m putting you under my protection.” 

“Don't need it.” 

“You do.” 

He grunted. 

“Once you meet the Witch you’ll understand.” 

He wasn't scared of a witch. He’ll kill her too. “I’ll just kill you.” 

Soft laughter filled the cave. The Jack-o-lanterns' frozen smiles widened, their knife cut eyes shifting to look at him. 

“ _ Dieeeee _ ,” one hissed softly. 

Another sprouted blackened vines. The ends split into several smaller fingers. It grabbed the cave floor and dragged itself closer, the manic grin glowing brightly. 

“I think you’ll find me a much more difficult demon to deal with when I’m expecting you,” the headless one said. 

A glowing orb of flame appeared in the darkness. A long face followed. The black horse thing Slasher thought he’d killed was very much alive, and still had it’s head. The fanged mouth opened, wider and wider, all the way back to the start of its throat. It stalked forward, smoke curling out of the nostrils, flaming eyes unblinking, a crimson glow coming from the back of the open maw. 

Maybe Slasher was  _ slightly _ outnumbered. 

“I am the Hollow Highwayman,” the headless one said.

Slasher grit his teeth and said nothing. The Highwayman crouched down again, grabbing Slasher by the chin and tilting his face up. 

“You have a choice. You can belong to me, or, your head can.” 

Slasher glanced at the pumpkin creatures, dragging themselves toward him. His gaze slid over to the demon horse. A long, black tounge slid out of the mouth, slowly curling at the tip as gray drool dripped off of it. He looked back at the vacant space over the neck stump. There were no eyes to look into, but he felt the creature’s gaze on him. Well, when he put it like that….

“You’re the boss.” 

“ _ Diiiie _ ,” the pumpkin creatures hissed, sounding disappointed. They seemed to deflate, the vines retreating back to wherever they had come from. 

The horse demon snorted, filling the space with sulfur and ash. The tongue retreated as the gaping maw closed. The fiery orbs that served as eyes still stared at him. 

“Good.” The Highwayman reached out and touched a clawed finger to Slasher’s neck. 

Pain ripped through his skull. Slasher grit his teeth as the claw slowly pulled across his throat, burning deep past the skin, branding him down to the bone. He swore, his vison going white as the world outside the pain vanished. Finally, the claw stopped on the opposite side of his throat and pulled away. 

Something beyond the pain slithered into his veins. Like barbed wire wrapping around his innards, the feeling settled inside of him. He growled, twisting his neck side to side. Slowly the pain ebbed away. 

“Perfect,” the Highwayman said. He brushed the backs of his knuckles along the brand. 

The gentle gesture puzzled Slasher. The touch felt almost… kind. He arched an eyebrow at the Highwayman. The bindings on his arms vanished. A human spine appeared in the Highwayman’s grip, a long, black whip coiled at his boots. 

Slasher rubbed his wrists, getting some feeling back into his fingers. He reached out and grabbed his rifle. Like finding a missing piece, or settling into a comfortable bed, the world felt right again. 

“ _ Diiiiiie _ !”

He looked up. The pumpkin creatures had sprouted vines again, expression set in angry grins. He growled back at them. 

The Highwayman put out a hand and the creatures calmed. Slasher relaxed, cradling the rifle to him. The pain dulled to a constant itch in his throat. 

“Now everyone will know who you belong to.” 

Slasher glared up at the Highwayman. “I belong to me.” 

The pumpkins’ grins widened and the nightmare horse shook its head, embers from its mane spraying against the floor.

“For now, you’re mine,” the Highwayman said. “You’ll grow out of the need for my protection.” He stood, offering Slasher a hand up. 

He ignored it, pushing himself to his feet. The brand along his throat smoldered. Not painful, but a warning that pain would come. He touched it. The ragged ridges of the brand scrapped at his fingers. The itch returned. 

“Don’t pick at it,” the Highwayman snapped at him. 

Slasher growled back at him and scratched at his throat. 

“Man of few words and fewer manners.”

He shrugged. “What now?” 

“I'm sure you're tired of being cooped up,” the Highwayman said. “Let’s give you something else to do before you scratch your throat out.” 

“Like what?” 

The Highwayman reached out and grabbed the demon horse by a black leather bridle that blended in perfectly with it’s skin. 

“We’re going to have a little fun.” 

Even without a face, Slasher could hear the grin in The Highwayman’s words. 

~

A feeling hinted that this was not Slasher’s first time riding a horse. But even if this had been the 10,000th time, nothing would have prepared him for the experience of riding the nightmare behind the Highwayman. 

The thing’s spine felt fluid. Bowing and extending under him more like the flexible spine of a predator than a horse. He didn't want to hold onto the Highwayman, but they careened through the world at a breakneck pace. He clutched at the flapping black coat to keep himself from falling off. 

Smoke billowed into his face from the fiery mane. The Highwayman wasn't bothered. The upside to not having a head. He laid the rains against the nightmare's neck and the beast nearly turned on a dime. Slasher scrambled to hold on before he was thrown off and his head smashed in. 

Laughter rang out as the Highwayman reached back and grabbed hold of Slasher’s jacket. “Hold on tight.”

The Highwayman yanked back on the reins, leaning back in the saddle. Slasher’s organs shifted forward as all forward momentum came to a halt. His innards crashed against this rib cage before bouncing back into place. He did not like riding this thing.

“We’re here.” 

Slasher looked around himself. He was surrounded by trees. Huge pines and conifers that looked old. It was quiet. No crickets chirped. Not even a whisper of a breeze disterbed the air. The only indication of life was the soft crackle of the nightmare’s flaming eyes. 

Something about the absolute quiet, the way the forest felt like it was holding its breath, felt like  _ home _ . A quiet anticipation hummed in his veins. 

“Do you hear it?” The Highwayman whispered.

“The quiet?” 

The Highwayman chuckled. “The humans.” 

Slasher shook his head. 

“Listen.”

Slasher closed his eyes, listening to the nothing. Slowly, tiny sounds came to him. Far off crunching of a deer chewing fodder. The soft hush of owl wings through the air. A vole’s heartbeat underground. 

There, on the fringe, some distance away, voices. Human voices. The crackle of a campfire, the muted banter, maybe a ghost story. The anticipation grew. His hands ached to have flesh and bone to squeeze. Hot blood. A beating heart. 

The Highwayman chuckled again. “Go get them.” 

A giddy high washed over him. Slasher dismounted, boots pounding the earth. Pine and dirt clouded his senses, but through it all, blood called to him. He wanted it. The rifle appeared his in hands, heavy and hot and itching to be fired. 

“Slasher.”

He turned. The Highwayman was a slash of darkness haloed by the moon. Mounted on the nightmare, he was an intimidating sight. The glow of his neck, and the eyes of the nightmare were the only indication anyone was there in the darkness. 

He leaned forward, hand outstretched, the hockey mask held in his grip. Slasher reached out and took it. 

“Bring me back a head.” 

The brand tingled, but he didn’t have to be told twice. Slasher smiled as he pulled the mask over his face, tugging the strap tight. Orange vapor spilled from the slits in the mask, wrapped around his head before sinking to his boots.   


“You’re the boss.”

**Author's Note:**

> AND A HAPPY HALLOWEEN TO ALL AND TOO ALL A SPOOKY NIGHT!! 
> 
> Don’t get caught out in a Spooky Forest and get hunted by a supernatural dude in a hockey mask that will lop off your head and bring it to his husband to wear.


End file.
